Precipitation
by musefan929
Summary: A rainy night in post-war London. A drabble series for your enjoyment. Ron/Hermione Neville/Luna
1. Heels

Hermione walked with a tilted gait, brushing a lock from her forehead. In her hand was the stem that had snapped off her high heel. It was an easy fix but she had left her wand at her flat. Ten blocks away.

A sweet buttery scent rolled out of a nearby cafe. If she had been in a cartoon, a wispy trail would have caressed her cheeks and drawn her closer. Her wallet, however, was buried under a mess of clothes at Ron's new flat. Three blocks away.

"Last time I make that mistake," she murmured, clutching her rain coat closer, unsure if 'mistake' meant losing her wallet or...

A bus careened past, sweeping her hair into the updraft. As she attempted to pat it all down, a page of newspaper smacked her leg. Hermione held it up and the words shifted. _The Daily Prophet_ had a clever cloaking device that could transform from a bland auto advert to its daily news.

ONE YEAR AFTER WAR, FAMILIES STILL SEEK ANSWERS

Hermione crumbled the paper. Aurors had been less successful than previously expected. Ron and Harry talked endlessly about their work and remaining Deatheaters. It was growing intolerable.

She arrived at Ron's apartment and buzzed. No response. How bloody typical. Pressing her forehead against the buzzer and groaning loudly, the sky cracked open and a deluge of rain poured. Hermione stuck her hands into her rain coat for warmth. Her fingers brushed something. It was her wallet. Rage consumed her.


	2. Bells

Ron looked out the window of his flat. It was raining. He wore large headphones, a gift from Hermione which was plugged into a CD player from Harry. The CD was a new personal favorite- Red Hot Chili Peppers. Hermione had been introducing him to all sorts of Muggle music. Jazz, she liked that. Classical, well, that had been an obvious no. But rock, that had been more his style.

Hermione. Suddenly, bells were going off in his brain.

"Merlin's arse!" Ron shouted, ripping off the headphones.

The buzzer to his apartment was ringing. He leapt over his couch and pressed the button. There was a strangled howl coming from the other end.

"...ANDBURYYOUDEEPINTHEBOWELSOF..."

"'Mione?"

"Ronald? RON WEASLEY WILL YOU LET ME IN?"

He let her in and she dashed up the stairs. Opening the door, he was attacked by a wet, scraggly blur of hair, fists, and kisses.

"Out in the rain, Ronald!"

"I know."

"And what were you doing? I bet you were just dozing by the window listening to that damned CD player!" Hermione shouted while tickling, slapping, twisting and yanking various parts of Ron.

"I- I've got tickets to- to- Oi! I only have one of those! Tickets to a show tonight!" Ron gasped under Hermione's brutal assault.

Hermione paused, her wet hair sticking out at every angle.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Was interrupted by a great wet bear- hey! Ow! Okay, sorry! I'M SORRYOWWWW!"


	3. Bollocks

Harry drummed his fingers on the polished wood of the bar. He checked his watch then looked out the window. People passed through the rain, holding up soggy newspapers and scurrying under umbrellas. He ran his hand through his wet hair and looked in the mirror behind the bar. His hair was a complete mess, which, of course, was a _big_ surprise.

"Another?" the bartender asked.

"No, thanks, still working on this one," Harry answered, holding up the last of an orange concoction.

"Is that Doxy Egg Rum?" Ron asked, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Well, as you may have guessed, everything here at The Gnomes Bollocks is some top-quality stuff," Harry replied, downing the rest of the drink with a cough and slamming the bar.

The bartender took it as a sign for another. A sickeningly orange drink appeared before Harry. He turned pale.

"I'll take it off your hands," Ron said eagerly, darting his hand past Harry.

"What Ron meant to say," Hermione said, eying Ron, "was thank you for getting us tickets."

Harry smiled and ushered them into a packed lounge room. It was dim. Ron slid his hand downwards and Hermione swatted him away. Harry coughed and showed them to a table toward the side.

"Someone's posh," Ron said with an impressed smile, sitting down and admiring the luxurious seating.

"It helps when you know who's playing," Harry said, pointing to the stage.


	4. Glasses

He sat in his chair in the dressing room of The Gnome's Bollocks. Outside his window, the rain was beating harder than the Hogsmeade Storm of '72.

He tossed back another shot of Firewhiskey and sniffed loudly. Or had it been '71? He glanced at the mirror. That had been a mistake. There was a reason why he did not bother with mirrors back home. He saw more than himself inside them.

"Dumbledore?" a man asked, poking in his head.

Aberforth slid his glasses on and stood up to his spindly height.

"Right," he grunted.

He parted the curtains and nodded to the audience, who roared with anticipation. Plenty of young people tonight, he thought, not The Bollock's usual. Not that there was a "usual" these days. He was a tired old man. Who gave a Horntail's-

"Aberforth!"

He held up a hand to block the spotlight. Well nuts of a goat, he thought, it was Harry Potter. The boy had pestered him into a steady correspondence. Seemed stuffed with questions, but he was a good kid.

Aberforth had written to Harry that he was back playing these days, even offered Harry a nice table in a two-knut joint in the city. Seems like he took him up on it, along with that sniffy girl and the lad with the too-big ears.

"This one's from way back," Aberforth began, picking up his guitar, "I like to call it 'When the Basilisk Comes Callin' Tell Him I'm Not Here'."


	5. Courage

Neville winced. Aberforth had already started. Neville's bus had been late in the rain and then he had forgotten where he had placed his ticket when he got to the entrance of the club. These were bad signs for the kind of Neville that misplaced live animals.

But Luna would be here, he thought. She had sent an owl at the start of her holidays, asking if he could spare a night. Well, the lonely, unemployed days with Gran certainly did not count as 'busy'. No, tonight would be different.

"Don't worry, only missed one song," Luna said, tapping him on the shoulder.

Neville cracked into a nervous smile, saying, "Luna! You look beautiful!"

Luna wore a silver tunic and black tights with neon geometrical shapes. It was strikingly demure for the girl with radish earrings.

"And you look beautiful as well," Luna said with an airy smile, leading him to the table.

But Neville was overcome with nerves. Her hand in his felt right but wretchedly terrifying. He excused himself to duck into the men's room.

Neville locked the door. Took a breath. Courage, he thought. Now was the time to summon the kind of Neville who slew serpent horcruxes. Coming back out, he saw Luna waiting patiently, swaying to the music, her eyes to the stage. With a new strength, he walked forward.

"Terrible weather we've been having," he whispered.

Without hesitation, Luna entwined her fingers with his.

"I've quite enjoyed it," she said.


End file.
